"Don't be a baby, Eleanor," scolded Madge. "There is nothing to hurt you."
Once inside the old house, Eleanor was as much interested as her chums. There was no furniture in the place, but a few faded pictures were tacked up on the walls, and the corners of the room were thick with mysterious and inviting shadows.
As they clustered in a group under an old magazine picture of a darkey with a fiddle in his hand there was an unexpected sound just outside the door, and the big room grew suddenly darker.
The four girls turned simultaneously.
The heavy door through which they had entered the cabin, and which was the only entrance, had been shut fast. At the same instant there was the sound of a heavy, sliding bolt, then the rush of flying feet.
For the moment no one of the girls realized the seriousness of what had happened.
"Some one must have locked us in for a joke," declared Phil stoutly.
Madge ran to the door and shook it with all her strength. It was built of heavy logs, and, though the girls could see the daylight through the cracks between the timbers, the door showed no sign of opening.
"Don't work so hard, Madge," remonstrated Phil. "Whoever shut us in will come back in a moment to unfasten the bolt."
The girls waited a long time. No one returned.